


if we make it through december we'll be fine

by incurableromancer



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depressed Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Depression, Flirting, Fluff, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, detailed trigger warning in the notes, learning to live with depression, learning to love somebody with depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:01:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28268805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incurableromancer/pseuds/incurableromancer
Summary: Joe and Nicky are two lonely people who frequent the same bookstore. After they get to talking, they figure out that maybe they don’t have to be so lonely anymore.Or: a little love story about difficult seasons, and how they pass.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 145
Kudos: 575





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for talk of depression, therapy, medication, and allusions to a past suicide attempt.

Nicky has always liked to read.

He was a quiet kid. Books were where he found adventures. He always thought someday he’d grow up big and strong and confident and become one of those people who has wonderful adventures, the kind somebody somewhere would want to read about.

Nicky is now thirty years old. He has a good job, and a few friends, and a comfortable place to live.

Nicky is still lonely. He didn’t know that was the word for it when he was a kid, or maybe he didn’t feel it yet. Maybe the books were enough back then.

There have been boyfriends, and trips, and new interests over the years. A degree. A promotion. People he could have seen himself settling down with. But somehow, it always comes back to Nicky alone, sitting in front of his bookshelf. Remembering the things he’s done and the places he’s been because that’s the month he read this story, or that’s the place or the person who introduced him to this or that author.

Or, it’s the place or the person that hurt his feelings or that he started to miss so much that he got into this or that author to fill up the loneliness.

His collection has grown bigger and bigger with each passing year. Right now there’s a little used bookstore he favours, an old place a dozen or so bus stops away.

One day he goes to the bookstore and meets Joe. Even though he doesn’t know it right away, that’s the day the adventure he’s been craving begins.

*

“Ah- Naguib Mahfouz.” The sleepy looking man in the sweater has a crooked smile on his face, nodding at the books Nicky’s holding in his hands, trying to decide between. Nicky isn’t sure when he appeared, emerged from between dusty, crammed bookshelves, disturbed the eery stillness. He must have light footsteps.

His eyes are warm and earnest, sparkly like something out of a movie. Apple cinnamon tea and dark roast coffee. Black skies on a cloudless night. Even under the dim lights of the bookstore, lights that don’t quite manage to chase away all the shadows in and around the shelves, he’s handsome. He looks tired, a little washed out, and like maybe he could use a good meal or a dozen. But definitely handsome.

The man continues, “he’s good. You’re a fan?”

Nicky smiles, helpless not to at the gentle everything about this man in front of him, his voice and his beard and his eyes, the way he’s trying to strike up a conversation.

He feels comfortable with this tired stranger, despite the sheepishness at the answer he has for him. “I hope I’ll be a fan. I'm just trying to choose something to start with.”

The man slowly nods, smile going faintly wry like he’s not sure what to say next.

Nicky thinks that watching those eyes fall to the floor feels like watching a lightbulb flicker out and die.

He watches the man’s curls bounce a little as he ducks his head, losing whatever confidence it was that made him speak up in the first place. He turns back to the shelf after a final polite half-smile, the way you end a one-time interaction with a stranger.

Nicky takes a breath, and does something completely out of character.

He holds up the books in his hands, The Thief and the Dogs in his left, Midaq Alley in his right, watching the man reach for a title he’s never heard of before. Then he asks, “would you recommend either of these?”

The man looks back at him, that little smile lighting his face up all over again, drawing Nicky in all over again.

*

The next time they run into each other, Nicky learns that the man’s name is Joe. He begins to suspect that the gentleness is an intrinsic part of his character, from the delicate way he runs his fingers over the spines of books to the softness of his eyes, the lilt of his voice, the pink curve of his smile and the optimistic way he chats about things, little insights into his life outside of their shared respite. The way his sweaters hang off his frame, and how he walks through the store, comfortable but careful, like he feels the serenity and fragility in stacks of used books the same way Nicky does. 

He learns gradually that it wasn’t just the first impression, that Joe is really and truly this lovely and loves to read and perhaps is a bit lonely, a little bit shy and quiet, but not the way that Nicky is shy and quiet, because Nicky has always been that way. Joe laughs loud and smiles bright like he was designed to be happy and surrounded by people who also laugh loud and smile bright, and he’s funny in the witty, quick way of people who are confident in their ability to entertain. Maybe he’s just a little out of practise, is all. Nicky wants to ask why it is that he looks so tired all the time and why he’s all alone like Nicky, why he has enough time to read so much, why there aren’t people who have better laughs than Nicky’s self-conscious snorted chuckles for him to spend his time with, but Nicky knows that he wouldn’t like to be asked those things by a near stranger, especially not one he finds so lovely, so. He tucks those questions away, and he sticks to book talk.

He tells Joe decisively after a few weeks that he has become a fan of Naguib Mahfouz. Opts for another of his titles. Joe asks for a recommendation in return, something shocking and colourful, he adds playfully, and so on a whim Nicky sends him away with Fight Club.

_(“I have to say, Nicky, that was not the kind of story I expected you to recommend.”_

_“You didn’t like it?”_

_“I liked it a lot. ‘M just saying, you’re full of surprises.”_

_“Oh, uh- well- thank you? I think?”_

_“You’re welcome.”)_

*

They keep recommending books to each other, and helping each other pick out titles that neither have read before. Nicky comes to be familiar with all of Joe’s sweaters, or at least the ones he favours the most, comes to think particularly fondly of the tightly crocheted one with winding flowers and leaves all across it in dark shades of blue, green, and brown. He’s also partial to the soft pink hoodie with the strings that Joe ties into a cute little bow, and the black knitted thing that ends an inch or two above his waist but has long sleeves that fall down all over his delicate fingers. Maybe he just thinks Joe has all around great taste in sweaters, or great taste in general. Maybe he just likes everything about Joe. Or maybe he’s mostly just glad that he keeps himself warm, because he always looks like he could use a hug.

He thinks that this is a strange thing to catalogue about an acquaintance he keeps solely through a mutual bookstore visitation schedule, but then Joe starts commenting with a glittery little smile about Nicky’s rotation of the same two cuts of shirt in different neutral colours. He blushes because he’s never been one for style, really, and because Joe has noticed this about him.

Because Joe notices him.

*

Seven on Thursdays becomes the time that they meet up at the bookstore. Nicky’s not sure when they started picking out at least one book to each get a copy of to chat about with each other, but that’s something they do on Thursdays at seven too.

One week, quietly, so as to give Joe the option to choose not to hear him, Nicky suggests that they carve out a better, more suited time in the week to discuss their latest reads rather than in rushed, hushed whispers amidst the stacks of the bookstore, so that they don’t have to come up with excuses to draw out their browsing.

Joe hits him with a brilliant smile. And that is how they start spending Sunday nights on Joe’s sofa, eating fruits that are in season and licking the juice from their fingers through their laughter, more subdued and sleepy by the time they’re munching on the baked goods Nicky brings over, rarely managing to stay on the topic of whatever book they’ve devoured that week for long.

Nicky rediscovers the quiet joy and reassurance of having something steady to look forward to.

*

Nicky has to miss bookstore day one week because he finds himself laid up in bed with something between a cold and the flu, and that’s how he realizes that Joe has become the kind of person in his life who comes over just to bring him medicine and soup. Just because he wants to know he’s okay, wants to help him feel better, because he misses him.

At some point he also becomes the kind of person in Joe’s life who takes him to the dentist when he has to get his wisdom teeth out.

_(“If all my wisdom comes out with the teeth and I can’t make witty observations about our books anymore, will you still keep me around?”_

_“Of course.”)_

(He says it with a teasing shake of his head, but he knows it’s absolutely true. Just like he can tell that there’s a little bit of real insecurity in Joe’s voice, and that the question isn’t really about wisdom or teeth but about the sadness that makes Joe look so tired all the time.)

When he takes Joe home afterwards, wide eyed and earnest, still half-stoned and muttering about how dentist’s offices are scary and he never wants to go back because they’re so clean and sterile that they feel dirty in a repressed way and somebody should write a book about it, makes him lay down on the couch under a blanket to doze while Nicky cooks something he can eat without having to do much chewing, he thinks he understands how and why Joe became the kind of person who brings him medicine and soup. If he is to Joe what Joe is to him, he understands, and it fills his chest with feelings of safety and comfort and relief.

*

Joe sleeps a lot, for somebody who looks so tired all the time. Actual bedtime is a strange affair, because he putters around and reads and texts Nicky and doesn’t seem to like the thought of laying down alone with his thoughts at all. But once he falls asleep, it seems like waking up becomes the worst, most difficult thing in the world. Or maybe it’s just leaving bed, more so than the actual waking up. Nicky isn’t sure.

He’s prone to accidental napping, too. Maybe it’s easier because he wears so many layers, especially if it’s a hoodie that he can pull up over his head, because he’s already essentially snuggled up. The amount of times he’s fallen asleep on Nicky’s sofa is already too many to count. Or the amount of times he’s dozed off on his own sofa, leaving Nicky to put a blanket over him and let himself out.

Nicky comes to realize that sometimes, not always, but definitely _some_ of the times when it seems like Joe isn’t so tired, it’s less that he isn’t tired and more that he tries really hard not to be. He tells jokes that make Nicky laugh his stupid snorting laugh, and he smiles and he talks and he’s sweet as a peach, but he also rubs at his eyes and yawns and Nicky can always tell when he’s really tired because his smiles don’t quite reach his eyes, or when they do, they’re subdued in a way that Joe’s joy ordinarily is not.

It’s not anything that Nicky can fix, he doesn’t think. Nothing’s really _wrong._ Joe is just tired sometimes. So one day when Joe is trying so hard to be cheerful and to smile and to make Nicky smile, Nicky puts on a movie and has Joe put his head in his lap so he can push his fingers through his hair, and he tries to make sure Joe knows it’s okay to just _be_ with him, even if he’s not cheerful and if he doesn’t feel like smiling.

Joe looks up at him with his expressive eyes, blinking sleepily at the rhythm of long fingers petting through his curls, and Nicky can see that they’ve reached an understanding.

*

One Sunday night, they’re curled up on Joe’s sofa, books long forgotten, their breath sweet with cherries and chocolate, eyelids heavy with sleepiness. Joe’s legs are in Nicky’s lap, and they’re both quietly watching the rain hammer down past the window, the night grey and windy and chilly, the two of them feeling perfectly warm and cosy.

Nicky’s slowly rubbing his thumb over Joe’s ankle. Joe’s all curled into himself, snuggled against the sofa like he’s about ready to fall asleep. Nicky takes a breath, readying himself to murmur about how it’s getting late so that Joe will go to bed instead of falling asleep on the couch trying to be good company, go against every desire he’s ever had and leave Joe to his rest, when Joe says, “looks cold out there. Why don’t you stay?”

Nicky isn’t sure he would have been able to refuse the warm, hopeful look in those eyes even if he wanted to.

He’s given a new toothbrush from the stash under Joe’s sink, and a comfy combo of sweats and a soft long sleeve to sleep in (all of Joe’s shirts and sweaters have long sleeves). Then there’s some half-hearted arguing about who’s going to take the couch, before they both crawl under the covers in Joe’s big, comfy bed.

It’s a lovely bed. Queen sized, very soft mattress, firm enough to prevent backaches but with enough give to be cosy and embracing. Fitted with soft sheets and no less than three blankets, and a whole nest of pillows.

Nicky blinks slowly at Joe’s sleepy face, big brown eyes blinking slowly back at him, spidery eyelash shadows over thin cheeks, skin smudged vague under the moonlight, and thinks that it must be lonely to sleep in such a big nice bed all alone.

He’s not really sure who leans in first, but the kisses are soft and warm. Joe cups his face with a gentle palm, and Nicky rubs a slow, curious hand over Joe’s side, settling somewhere at his waist, and then around the small of his back, sneaking up under the hoodie, but over the shirt underneath, so thin it’s practically melted into the warmth of Joe’s skin.

They go to sleep pressed back to front, cozy and cuddly, nice and warm.

*

Another night on Joe’s sofa a little while later, a Tuesday night because they’ve given up the pretence of needing the books as an excuse to see each other (though Thursday is still bookstore date day) Joe tells Nicky about the sadness and why he's so tired sometimes. That it’s not really sadness, per se, but a tired numbness that comes and goes, laced with anxiety and dread. That it’s something he deals with, or is still learning to deal with, and that he sees a therapist and used to take medication that he might have to take again someday, and then he pushes up the long sleeve of the black sweater to show Nicky the faded white scar, thick, raised from the skin, parallel to the bone of his arm from almost three years ago, now.

Nicky holds Joe when he starts to cry, and he tells him he’s not going anywhere, and lots of other reassuring things that he thinks Joe needs to hear. He doesn’t let himself cry until he goes home the next day to get ready for work, and even then, it’s a determined sort of crying.

He meant all of the reassuring things, even though Joe insisted that he should take some time to think about it all and if he really wants to get into something serious with somebody who experiences their moods like seasons, sometimes.

Nicky has not been sure of much in his life, but he’s sure about this.

And he’s scared. Because it hurts just to see Joe tired and quiet, and he’s not sure what a whole bad season looks like, and the image of the scar on Joe’s wrist throbs like a punch to the gut inside of his head, behind his eyelids, crystal clear even through the blur of tears.

But he’s not going anywhere.

And sometimes when it gets hot outside Joe pushes his long sleeves up in front of Nicky, now.

The first time he comes to bed with only one of Nicky’s t-shirts covering his chest, arms all exposed and crossed like he’s not sure how to act with them uncovered, Nicky kind of wants to cry again. He smiles, instead, and lets Joe curl up against his chest. Pushes his fingers through his curls, kisses his dimples when he smiles, and teases him for holding out on the gun show.

Joe giggles too, jokingly pops his biceps and lets Nicky squeeze them.

Things are okay.

*

Joe pushes his nose against Nicky's, eyes wide and disbelieving, fingers digging into his arms.

It's way too late to be awake, and Joe looks as tired as Nicky feels.

He steals a quick kiss before Joe can open his mouth.

“What do you mean you don’t like poetry? Who just doesn’t like poetry? What about song lyrics? Or silly greeting cards?”

“Hm, I do like song lyrics and silly greeting cards. Maybe it’s more that I don’t know any good _written_ poetry. Or I don’t have the brain to understand it. I don’t like having to think really hard about what all the words mean together. Shakespeare made my head hurt in school.”

“Well, that’s fair. But I think it’s just like novels and stories. Maybe you’d enjoy some poems about things you’re already _interested_ in. The language doesn’t have to be complicated. I bet I could find some that you would like.”

He gestures vaguely at the stack of books on his nightstand, one stack new, one varying degrees of old and loved and worn, and though Nicky is interested to know what sorts of poems he would recommend, he's glad he doesn't take his warmth out of bed to go get any tonight. Curls his arms tighter around his waist, and feels a little bit victorious as Joe yawns.

“Can you find me a poem about a guy with pretty brown eyes who likes poetry? I’m _interested_ in a guy like that.”

*

Nicky forgets the novel he’s halfway through at home one morning when he’s leaving for work. He can’t go back for it, because then he’d miss his bus.

There’s a little well of anxiety in his chest, because burying his nose in books in the little in between moments has been his crutch the last couple years. It’s hard to be truly lonely when you’re reading stories about people doing things, even if they’re lonely people, because then at least you know you’re not the only lonely one in the whole world. That somebody else has known the feeling intimately enough to write a whole book about it. Or even to get caught up in the story enough that you forget you exist outside of it, forget all about your lonely little life.

Maybe he’s different now, since meeting Joe. Because the bus ride is still relaxing, even without a book to read. He looks out the window, and muses about the lives of the people on the sidewalk. And he goes for a walk on his lunch break instead of cracking open a book at his desk, sees a person with a very silly hat, and another person with no less than eleven dogs on a single complicated branching leash, and he spends some time thinking about how beautiful the park a few blocks down is, and starts planning a park day. And after work, when he takes the bus to the stop closest to Joe’s place, the lightness in his chest at being on his way to see Joe keeps him feeling good. Worn out after a long week, sleepy, hungry. But okay, really. No loneliness squeezing his heart, even without the distraction of a good book.

Maybe he’s not so lonely anymore.

He feels alive.

*

They don’t have sex until three months after their first kiss.

For the first while, Nicky couldn’t really say why. It’s not that they don’t want to, he doesn’t think. When they kiss, and when they hold each other close at night, the heat is definitely there. Nicky wants Joe. He isn’t too shy to admit that he can tell Joe wants him too, that he can feel his eyes on him, the hitches in his breath, the flush under his skin when they wake up all tangled together.

He doesn’t push. He’s in this whether or not Joe ever wants sex, so he figures he’ll wait for him to make the first move, or to say he isn’t interested in going there.

After Joe opens up to him about his depression, he thinks he understands. And, he also understands that for Joe to take his clothes off in front of another person is a big thing. Some days he still isn’t comfortable enough for short sleeves.

When they finally get there, it’s comfortable and sweet.

They spend the day in the park, with Joe’s friend Booker and Nicky’s friend Nile from work who he wishes he’d taken up an invitation to hang around with after work sometime before now, because she’s very nice. Then he smiles, and he watches her smiling and Joe smiling and Booker telling some crazy story, and he thinks, at least we're hanging out now. 

It’s a lovely day.

They throw a frisbee around and eat sandwiches and ice cream, and everyone’s laughing and smiling and living in the moment the way you don’t do when you’re lonely.

Nicky wants to capture some of Joe's laughter in a jar and keep it tucked away for the rainier days.

When the sun sets and they split off and start heading home, Joe looks at him with his bright eyes and he says, “today is a perfect day.”

They take turns showering, and then curl up under the blankets in Nicky’s bed, and they’re kissing, kissing, kissing. Joe tugs on Nicky’s shirt until he gets the hint, and then he pulls his own off.

Joe is moaning suddenly, quietly, after Nicky’s curious hands get a little carried away feeling out all of this new skin, all the new ways he’s allowed to make Joe gasp while they kiss, and Joe’s asking, “please, can we?”

They do.

Joe comes with Nicky’s name on his lips, thighs trembling, and Nicky comes with his face pressed into Joe’s neck. Panting in the darkness, pulling back to look at each other, they start giggling.

They do it again in the morning.

*

One day they’re grocery shopping. They go together because Joe sends him a text that says he needs to pick up some things after work, so he won’t be home right away, so maybe they can meet up at Nicky’s place a little later.

Nicky texts back that _he_ isn’t going to be home right away because he needs to go to the grocery store too.

So they decide to go together.

Joe really likes grocery shopping. He says he never got to pick what he wanted when he was little, and money was tight, and he had so many siblings, so he always thought that one day when he was big and grown up he’d never take being able to buy his own groceries for granted.

He tells Nicky this with a soft smile on his face, carefully putting the broccoli he’s picked out into a bag. 

Nicky thinks about how sometimes when Joe is tired and not smiling much, he asks Nicky to pick up the few things he needs instead of going himself. Coffee. Tea. Bread. The same bread that he's picking out right now, bopping his head up and down to the music playing in the store. And then he shakes that thought away.

Nicky looks down at the onion in his hand, and he looks up at Joe and his smile, and he wonders to himself why he’s never in his life thought of grocery shopping as anything more than another chore on the to-do list.

Then he thinks to himself that Joe does that. He makes little everyday things feel good, makes Nicky feel alive. Makes him want to remember things like waiting in line to check out because Joe is tapping his fingers against the cart along with the music, and he’s cheerfully telling Nicky about the weird dish he’s planning on trying to cook with the broccoli, and they’re smiling at each other.

And Nicky thinks to himself, it’s him. He makes me look around and realize that life is worthwhile. He’s my adventure.


	2. Chapter 2

Joe didn’t like to read so much growing up. He never really gave it much thought, had a whole bunch of other interests more suited to his childhood, things he could do with his friends and his family. Football. Climbing trees. Playing with and babysitting his siblings. Making trouble in the neighbourhood with other boys his age, trouble of the cute kind that earned him hair ruffles and smiles and laughter.

He always liked poetry, though. He was a drama kid. He loved plays and poems, loved that he could act and read them out with gusto and make people feel things, gasp and laugh and smile and clap and cry.

Booker is the only friend from his childhood he’s really held onto. And Booker got him into reading novels and stories sometime around when he got diagnosed with depression, and all the gusto with his drama friends and their plays and sonnets and soliloquies started to feel like too much.

The first novel Booker put in his hands was The Giver. Joe had asked, isn’t this a kid’s book? 

And Booker had said, just give it a try.

_(Of course they needed to care. It was the meaning of everything.)_

Joe read it in a night. Then he called Booker at one in the morning, and told him that it was a beautiful story, and that he hated the ending.

Booker said, okay, then go read some more stories until you find one with an ending you like.

Soon, Joe’s little bookshelf for his poems and his plays started to overflow with all the novels and short story collections he was cramming onto it. And then some things happened in his life that he doesn’t care much to remember. And then a few more years went by, and there was Booker, and there was therapy, and there was a new job, and there was medication, and then there wasn't, and then he met Nicky.

*

Joe has grown to love stories. He loves being able to escape into them, into whole worlds and voices and viewpoints he never considered before, and he loves being able to see himself in the characters. He loves to be dazzled by prose and shocked by dialogue and events and plot points and to forget that he can’t sleep or that he can’t make himself get out of bed, because he’s staying awake and tucked in to find out what happens next. It becomes as much about that as it is because he can’t stand the desperate, desolate edge to all of this thoughts sometimes.

Nicky is a little different. Joe would have thought he was pretentious, maybe, if they’d met in school or college. Because he loves the books themselves, as much as he loves the stories. And he’s been like that his whole life, it seems. His whole brain is full of _sososo_ many books and stories. He’ll even read non-fiction, a lot of philosophy, sociology, the academic kind of history. Stuff that bores Joe.

Yeah, Nicky loves his books, and their stories stuffed full of morals and lessons and thoughts too big and complicated to be held anywhere other than within printed pages. The kind of stuff people get degrees in and write about their whole life. But he also will get quiet and distracted with simple things, like the gold foil shapes that decorate the cover of one of his novels, not one of the pretentious ones, but a hardcover edition of The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, black save for the thin foil rings that spiral out over the cover. When he turns the book back and forth under the light, it appears that the foil glimmers like sunlight on the water, and he’s just as excited to show Joe that as he is to read him wordy passages that Joe doesn’t really think he understands fully, not completely, not when he’s half asleep and it’s a book he hasn’t read before. But Nicky smiles as he talks, or as he makes the book shimmer under the lamp light, and that makes Joe smile, no matter what he’s talking about, or showing him.

And, Nicky doesn’t talk about things if he thinks Joe doesn’t want to listen to him talk about them. Joe didn’t even know he liked all that wordy philosophy stuff until he saw all the titles on Nicky’s bookshelf, well-loved like Joe’s poetry books, and he asked about them.

It’s funny, because Joe doesn’t know how to keep quiet about things he’s interested in like that. If he liked stuff that people thought was boring and pretentious, he’d talk about it anyway.

Nicky’s shy like that, self-conscious in a way Joe isn’t.

Joe always wants to listen to him talk about books and gold foil and anything and everything else all the time. Even if it’s boring and pretentious.

Maybe he thinks that Nicky is a lot like gold foil, and that he glimmers and shines once you get to looking at him, really looking at him, too.

*

“Joe. Wake up. Joe. Sweetheart. _Joe._ ”

_“Mmf?"_

"Hey."

"When did you get here? S’it morning?”

“It’s still bedtime. I just got here. Missed you. Stop making that face at me. Cutie. You’re hogging all the blankets. Can I have some?”

“Hmph. Cuddle?”

“Of course.”

*

Joe is busying himself by playing with Nicky’s fingers, trying not to nod off when Nicky asks him a question that pulls him firmly out of the grasp of sleep.

He’s perfectly cool and casual about it, which is how Joe can tell it’s been on his mind for a very long time.

“Why did you talk to me that first day in the bookstore?”

He’s rubbing his big goofy nose against Joe’s neck, slowly, affectionately. The tickle of his breath as he speaks makes Joe smile.

They’re cuddled up on Nicky’s couch. It’s not really late. But they’d spent the entire afternoon walking through a corner of the city neither of them were familiar with, buying little snacks and silly hats off of the street and laughing. Hours and hours of walking aimlessly is hard work, apparently.

Hadn’t felt like it, though. Not until they came inside and took their shoes off, and realized how sore their feet were.

Before that, Joe had looked at Nicky’s smiling face under the sunshine, and he’d thought, I love him so much.

Nicky whispers to him now, slow and lazy like the rain pitter-pattering down outside, “I am forever grateful that you did. Talk to me, I mean. ‘M just curious, I suppose.” He hums softly, then, pleased with Joe’s fingers skimming gentle over his forearm, letting him know he’s thinking.

Joe whispers back, voice impassioned the way he used to strive for in drama class, “fate must have made me do it. Destiny grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and said that I had to go talk to the handsome man in the ugly shirt, or else.”

Nicky giggles, and Joe feels him shift, leaning around enough to be able to stare Joe down. Doesn’t blink his big ocean eyes, boring into Joe’s own, keeps them wide and hypnotizing until Joe cracks, and the solemn mask he’s put on breaks into a dimpled grin.

Nicky kisses him, then.

When they settle back down, Joe takes a breath, and shares something he’s been wanting to for a very long time.

“My therapist had just told me that I should try getting out and meeting new people. I was the kid who never shut up in school. Made friends everywhere I went. And then this happened,” he waves his wrist around a little, the scar covered up by his sweatshirt. He’s not sure if Nicky realizes that his arms curl a little tighter around Joe’s waist. ”And I didn’t think I was that person anymore, or that I would be again. Hadn’t been for a long time. But my therapist didn’t agree. Gave me a whole talking to about how thinking like that is a great way to trap myself in depressive episodes. So I walked out of her office and I thought, fuck it, I’m going to go somewhere that there will be people, and I’m going to meet somebody new. Then I got on the bus and realized I’d finished my book, so I decided the place was going to be the bookstore. And in the bookstore, I found you. Trying to decide between two books by one of my favorite authors, no less.”

Nicky’s begun rubbing his knuckles gentle over Joe’s chest, at some point. It feels lovely.

“Hm,” Nicky smiles a little, pressing a kiss to Joe’s shoulder. “You know what that sounds like?”

Joe is already twisting around and squeezing at Nicky’s ticklish waist before he can even say the word destiny.

Though, he thinks, drinking in Nicky’s laughter, he wholeheartedly agrees.

And then Nicky wrestles them the other way around, pins Joe down and then promptly gives up the fight, cuddles into his chest instead.

Joe thinks again, I love him.

_I love him I love him I love him-_

*

It gets cold outside, and Joe has a bad couple weeks.

It creeps in slow and unassuming, like it always does, and then all at once Joe feels overwhelmed, like _nothing matters at all because everything is too much and it’s easier to shut it all out_.

He misses a few too many of Nicky’s calls. He sleeps too much. Or he doesn’t sleep at all for three days, and then he sleeps too much. He doesn’t eat enough. He goes to work, and he ignores his phone, and he feels not much of anything at all. He stares out the window at the rain and the snow, and he wears too many layers, and each morning he’s a little bit scared that it’s going to be the one when he can’t convince himself to get out of bed again and ends up losing his job.

His beard is getting too long. He doesn’t look at his left wrist one single time for weeks and weeks and weeks.

He sends Booker the text code that means “I need you to show up at my apartment when I have therapy the next little while and make sure that I get up and go.”

Booker does. It’s the first time that Booker has been the one receiving, rather than sending, the code.

At therapy, there’s talk about Joe going back on the medication. And then, offhand, his therapist looks down at her notes and asks if Joe has spoken to Nicky about this possibility.

Of course she does. Because Joe is in a long term relationship with Nicky, and she knows that they spend most of their free time together.

And then, somehow, Joe ends up crying for the first time throughout this episode, shaking and sobbing and trying to convince himself he’s not going to throw up, because he hasn’t spoken to Nicky in almost a week, and he’s skipped out on their bookstore dates twice in a row, and maybe Nicky’s not still going to be there when Joe drags himself out of this.

And then, afterwords, they drive back to Joe’s building, and Booker watches Joe dial Nicky’s number. He waits until he hears Nicky answer (on the first ring), and then he gets out of the car and goes to sit on the hood, facing away.

He doesn’t leave until Nicky gets there, and hauls Joe out of the car into what might be the tightest hug he’s ever seen.

Joe doesn’t go back on the medication, that time. For a little while, he sleeps too much, and he doesn’t eat enough, and he gives Nicky a spare key to his apartment. And it’s hard. Nicky’s scared. Joe’s scared.

_(“Joe? Are you awake?”_

_“Mhm. Why are you still awake?”_

_“Just thinking.”_

_“About what?”_

_“You. Your smile.”_

_“Nicky.”_

_“I’m sorry that I don’t understand. I want to.”_

_“Please, Nicky, don’t ever say that. I don’t want you to understand what this feels like.”_

_“Oh. Yeah.”_

_“You’re still here. That’s all I need from you. It means more than I can say.”_

_“I am here. But you’ll tell me if there’s anything else I can do, right?”_

_“I will.”_

_“Okay. I hope you get some sleep tonight. Sweet dreams.”_

_“You too, babe. Sweet dreams.”)_

When he drags himself out of it, Nicky is still there. Just like he said. And after things are looking up again, he promises again that he’s not going anywhere.

Joe thinks he believes him, this time.

*

Joe watches Nicky standing at the counter, very, very slowly chopping garlic. He has a lovely view from his seat at the table, pile of diced vegetables growing big in the bowl in front of him, trying to hide his smile.

“Why are you smiling like that?”

Joe stands, abandoning his big knife.

He pulls a smaller one out of the drawer, and then carefully sidles up behind Nicky, still smiling. Nicky’s hands still, moving to the sides out of Joe’s way, and Joe goes ahead and pushes the clove he’s been hacking away at to the side too, centres a fresh one on the cutting board.

“Hello.”

“Hello. Watch this.”

He hooks his chin over Nicky’s shoulder, and then presses the blade of the knife flat against the clove, pushing down on it with the palm of his other hand so that the garlic crushes flat with a little _squish_. Then he dices it up fine and tiny, much nicer, quicker and easier than Nicky had managed to do.

Nicky leans back into him, smiling now too.

“I should crush them first.”

“You should crush them first.”

*

In bed one night, Nicky is relaxing on his back. He’s got Joe’s pink hoodie on, hood up, strings pulled tight so that only his nose and mouth are poked out of the opening.

Joe looks up from his book and stares at him for exactly seventy seconds, trying to figure out if he’s fallen asleep or not, before creeping forward to kiss him.

Nicky makes a sleepy little sound, inhaling deep and surprised like he probably was at least half asleep, catches Joe around the waist and whines, pouting out his lips when Joe pulls back, twisting the strings around his fingers so the opening closes even more, now only his lips sticking out.

He looks very silly like that, lips pouted out of the little opening in the pink hoodie. He’s got on a god awful pair of white boxers printed with big red hearts, and he’s wiggling his toes up and down as he waits like that, stubbornly refusing to stop pouting out his lips until he gets another kiss.

What a geek.

Joe says, “I love you.”

Nicky makes another little sound in his throat, and sticks his lips out further.

Joe kisses him, trying not to smile.

“I love you too,” Nicky whispers into his mouth, all deep and raspy.

Then he lets Joe tug the hood off of his head, and soon the book falls to the floor, forgotten, the _thump_ unheard underneath their laughter.

*

Sex with Nicky is wonderful.

He’s probably the most awkward person Joe has ever slept with. He can’t keep a straight face for dirty talk. He never quite knows what to do with his knees or elbows. But he’s comfortable with himself, and he’s not afraid to laugh, to try again and to try new things.

They laugh a lot. And Joe feels wholly comfortable with him, loves that Nicky tells him he’s beautiful and that he loves him entirely earnestly even when they’re going for a more playful mood, and that he isn’t shy about liking to use his mouth on Joe, but he _is_ shy about being forced to tell Joe what he wants in return. Loves how Nicky can’t string more than two words together at a time when he’s close, and how he’s attentive and methodical, catalogues Joe’s each and every reaction to anything he does to him and files them away for later. Loves how he likes having his nipples played with and when Joe gives him beard burn on his thighs, how he likes to kiss and hold hands and he’s just as happy to cuddle up instead when Joe has lows where he doesn’t feel much like taking his clothes off for awhile.

He likes that he feels comfortable looking Nicky in the eye and he likes that he’s discovered that he _loves_ sleepy, slow, warm morning sex just as much as Nicky does.

He loves that discovering new things is something he and Nicky continue to do together.

*

One day they’re supposed to go on a date to visit a big, beautiful greenhouse.

Nicky frets, because a sudden thunderstorm has rolled in and it’s cold and wet and miserable outside. He checks the weather on his phone and frowns and asks if Joe wants to pick another day to go.

Joe smiles at him and tells him to bundle up warm.

They still end up drenched when they get there, rubber boots squelching against the floor, rain _drip-dropping_ off of their clothes.

Nicky keeps glancing up at Joe’s hair, so he figures the wind and the rain and the dampness of the air must have his curls all over the place.

He shakes his head in Nicky’s direction, droplets spraying all over, and Nicky giggles at him.

It’s beautiful in a melancholic sort of way. Clouds and grey loom through all of the old, intricate windows, pressing in on the glass and the frames and their chipped green and grey paint. There’s no warmth to seep into everything or cast it all gold, no sunshine, no rainbows. But the plants and flowers and vines are thriving, green and lush in every direction, the air fresh and dewy, beds and pots and stretches of blooms and blossoms in blues and purples and whites swaying lightly all over. The rain spatters over the roof in a sparkly lull of white noise, the little waves gushing down over the windows playing at a stormy sea, no other sounds at all save for their shuffling footsteps over stone and gentle breaths and quiet words.

They’re the only people there. It’s peaceful.

They hold hands, and take long minutes to admire every inch of the place. There’s a mossy little stone pond full of lily pads and frogs, and they give names to all of the ones that swim and hop by to say hello. One especially large and round one keeps _ribbiting_ at them, but only to interrupt Joe each time he speaks, and they name that one Booker.

They sit down on an intricately woven wrought iron bench, nestled into a corner that provides a view of all of the flowers and the pond and the path they’ve walked to get there. Nicky’s running his thumb over Joe’s hand again and again, thoughtful little smile on his face as he watches the window waves.

Joe asks, “are you glad we came today?”

Nicky’s eyes are twinkling.

“I am. I’m glad we didn’t wait.” He goes quiet for a minute, taking advantage of the privacy to reach up and twirl one of Joe’s wet ringlets around his finger. “It’s beautiful here. With the rain. But everything always is, with you.”

Joe looks at him and thinks, _no, Nicky, that’s you._

He says, “I love you.”


	3. Chapter 3

Nicky tries to get into poetry, and learns that it’s definitely not his thing.

He can appreciate a well-written poem. But sitting down to read through a whole book of them tests his patience. Worse are poems that span pages and pages and pages. His mind drifts and he grows bored, no matter how pretty and flowery the prose is. He’s shy about telling this to Joe, whose love for those very poems is big and eagerly shared, but Joe doesn’t mind. When Nicky first admits it he playfully mimes being shot in the heart, rolling out of bed and sprawling out on the floor, clutching his chest. Says Nicky has to kiss him to bring him back to life. But it doesn’t bother him, really, that they have different tastes.

Listening to Joe read out poems that he loves, however. That’s something Nicky could do forever with rapt attention, utterly consumed.

It’s one thing to read verses on a page, and it’s quite another to hear them from Joe’s lips, his tongue curling around the words, face lit up warm from the bedside lamp, his eyes soft and warm and sparkly, making it crystal clear that what he says is for Nicky alone.

A cliche on the page makes Nicky want to roll his eyes. How many voices need to serenade the sea? What more could there possibly be to say about it? What new meanings that haven’t already been penned?

But then Joe recites a poem about home in warm ocean waves, sunlight and green-blue depths, knowing paradise and salvation. Recites it while gazing shyly but intentionally into Nicky’s green-blue eyes, and then Nicky has to turn over and press his face into the pillow so Joe can’t see the tears he’s trying to hold back.

_(“What is it? It’s okay if you didn’t like the poem.”_

_“I liked it. Shut up.”_

_“Are you crying?”_

_“No.”_

_“Aw, baby. Come here.”_

_“Would you read it for me again?”_

_“Of course.”)_

*

One day, Nicky isn’t feeling so good.

He got cocky the night before, alone in his bed with a book and a glass of water. Tried to take a sip and turn the page at the same time, and next thing he knew, there was half a litre of water spilt all over the mattress, his book sopping wet.

With a sigh, he stripped the sheets and blankets and put them through the wash. He set the book on the windowsill, trying fruitlessly to figure out a way to position it so that the pages wouldn’t dry all stuck together. The mattress was going to need time, so he got out a spare blanket and went to go sleep on the sofa, itchings of annoyance at himself making him want to curl up and go to sleep as quickly as possible so that he could wake up to a new day.

He managed a fitful few hours, back starting to ache before he’d even fallen asleep. Woke up with an awful crick in his neck, right shoulder locking up whenever he moved his arm too high.

When he tried to make coffee, his coffee machine made a terrible, horrible _crrrnching_ noise and refused to start, and that was when Nicky realized he was going to have a bad day.

The headache set in before he even got to work.

Ten minutes late, because there was a traffic jam.

*

He’s supposed to go to Joe’s after work. At the beginning of the horrible day, he’s glad for this, because nothing sounds better than Joe’s kisses, the warmth of his arms, and his big, comfy bed. His smile. His laughter. He’ll probably find Nicky’s misfortune very funny indeed, will be understanding of why he wants nothing more than to drag Joe to bed and sleep the rest of the day away in his arms.

But then he thinks about when Joe wants to sleep the days away. When he gets tired, and numb. How hard he tries to be cheerful. To be strong.

Nicky wonders if maybe he’s being childish. If maybe he should just be grateful that there's coffee in the break room, and his mattress will be dry next time he sleeps on it.

By the time he’s back on the bus, heading to Joe’s, he’s resolved not to bother Joe with it. To act like it’s a normal day, because it is, really. Even if he’s a little tired and his back is a little sore. He doesn't need to drag Joe to bed. He can be good company for a few hours. 

It’s easier said than done, because he keeps drifting off, and he’s thinking too hard about everything he says, and Joe is nothing if not attentive and intuitive of the moods of the people around him. Dinner is a strange affair, the silence while they eat tense instead of comfortable.

Nicky can tell Joe can tell something is wrong, and it’s all very stressful, for him and Joe both, he suspects, which was the opposite of what he intended. Now he feels like he _needs_ to explain, but he’s also very tired, and he still feels a little bit like he’s being silly.

While he’s mulling this over, blinking sleepily at the movie playing on the television (Joe could tell Nicky wasn’t up for conversation), he realizes Joe is saying his name. Except, he doesn’t actually realize until Joe’s hand reaches out to brush over his sore shoulder, and he inhales sharp and sudden, pulling back, face contorting with the ache that shoots through the tight muscles.

The look Joe gives him then makes his heart hurt.

“Okay, Nicky. If you want to be silent and moody that’s fine, but if you’re hurt, I need you to tell me.”

Nicky cracks, reaching for him.

“No, I’m okay. I’m sorry. It’s just because of how I slept last night. I was going to tell you about it earlier, but it seemed silly.”

Joe tuts, concern pinching his eyebrows together, frown twisting his mouth. Holds his arms open for Nicky to slide into.

Nicky does, careful, grateful that Joe keeps his hands away from the shoulder.

“Talk to me, babe. Please. What seemed silly?”

Joe tucks some of his hair back behind his ear, cupping Nicky’s cheek.

Nicky says in a rush, “I spilt water on my bed last night, so I slept on the couch, or tried to sleep, not very successfully, and it hurt my back, and then my coffee machine broke this morning- I’ve just been grumpy and tired all day. I know it’s silly, and I don’t need to be complaining to you of all people about something so little- I didn’t mean to be silent and moody. I’m sorry.”

Nicky wants to stuff the phrase _you of all people_ back into his mouth the second it passes his lips. Watches Joe wince, the scar dancing behind his eyelids, the gentle touch of Joe’s left hand scorching against his hip.

Joe draws back a bit, that hand coming up to cup Nicky’s other cheek. He smiles a little sadly, though not unkindly, warmth and concern and lots of other things Nicky wants to drown himself in swimming in his eyes. “Okay. I’m going to say something, and I need you to hear it, okay?”

Nicky blinks at him. “Okay.”

Joe thumbs his cheekbone, and says, “I have depression, and big scary feelings. You don’t have depression. But you still have big scary feelings, because everybody does sometimes. I’m your boyfriend. I want you to come to me when you have a bad day, and let me hold you, or listen to you complain about it, or kiss it better, or just be here while you feel your feelings. It’s not silly. Your day was no less shitty just because I have a mental illness and you don’t. Okay?”

Nicky’s shoulders slump, and he all but falls forward into Joe’s arms.

“Okay.”

“Good,” Joe tells him, and kisses his head. “Now, are you going to let me take you to bed and rub your back while you tell me all about how terrible your sofa is, or do you want to stay broody and silent and hunched over for awhile longer?”

Nicky pushes his nose against Joe’s, eyes wide.

“Don’t play with me, Joe. If a back rub is on the table, I want it now.”

Joe’s eyes sparkle, eyebrows raising.

“Yes, sir.”

*

In bed later that night, Nicky is laying on his tummy. He’s dozing, sleepy and _extremely_ satisfied post a very intimate demonstration of Joe’s massage skills (was it three orgasms between the two of them? Four? Five, if you count- well), when he has another thought entirely.

“Was that our first fight?”

He hears the sheets rustle, the arm Joe has slung over his back curling tighter, fingers brushing up over his wrist, and then lacing their fingers.

“Hm. I guess so. Am I forgiven?”

Nicky blinks, turning over to slide half on top of Joe. He seeks out those brown eyes, half-lidded, flushes a little when his eyes catch on the marks he’s left over his collarbones.

“I think I’m the one who needs to be forgiven. You didn’t do anything wrong. Unless you fucked the memory right out of my head, which seems possible.”

Joe wriggles happily, wrapping his limbs all around Nicky with a pleased little growl.

(Nicky is in love with a koala bear.)

“Neither did you. I think maybe that was just communication, more than a fight.”

Nicky hums, smiling into a kiss.

“Communication. I like the sound of that.”

“I like the sound of _you._ ”

Nicky giggles.

“Yes, that’s just the sort of witty flirtation I fell for.”

Joe nips his ear.

“Shut up. I love you.”

Nicky scrunches his nose up at him. Squirms when Joe’s fingers squeeze at his ticklish hips.

“Aren’t you going to say you love me back? Are we fighting after all? Nicky? Beloved? My heart? Love of my life? Sugar-pie-honey-bun-baby-”

“You just told me to shut up! I was following instructions, sugar-pie-honey-bun-baby! Of course I love you.”

Joe noses against his neck.

“Oh, phew. You had me worried, there. I was a second away from calling up a couples counsellor.”

It’s quiet, for just a minute.

Nicky whispers, smile in his voice, “you’ve never called me the love of your life before.”

Joe’s fingers still against his skin, and Nicky can feel his heartbeat pick up.

“Is that okay?”

Nicky kisses him, slow and chaste.

“Yes. Love of my life.”

*

Nicky is not prepared to see Joe with baby animals.

One minute they’re trying to reorganize Nicky’s bookshelf, and the next Nicky’s taking a call from Nile, who’s saying she found an abandoned box of kittens outside, and it’s raining, and she’s close to Nicky’s place, so could she please take them there to get warm while she figures out what to do with them?

Nicky says yes, of course, come on over.

And then there are seven damp, squirmy little kittens on Nicky’s kitchen floor, unleashed from the soggy cardboard box, him and Joe chasing them with dish towels while Nile tries to get ahold of a vet, or a shelter that will take care of them.

Nicky is a little overwhelmed. He manages to wrangle three fluffy, black, brown and grey striped little kittens into his lap, settling down from mews to little purrs as he gently rubs the towel over them.

“They’re so tiny, Joe. Look at their little noses. I can fit three of them in one hand.”

He holds up his handful of kittens, glancing up with a smile at Joe, and then his heart swells even more, a stupid, besotted grin taking over his face when he realizes what Joe’s been up to.

He’s sprawled on his back, half under the table because he’s much too tall for Nicky’s small kitchen, sweater pushed up so that two of the babies can cuddle up in a purring kitten pile on his belly, on top of his t-shirt, now grimy with rain and mud. He’s got the hem of the sweater tucked over them with their little sleeping faces peaked out.

There’s one kitten, a little smaller than the others, midnight black with wide eyes to match cradled against his chest, purring like a motorboat as Joe gently strokes her ears, looking as in love as Nicky feels.

Joe meets his eyes, lower lip pouting out against his smile, and says, “she looks like a Morticia, doesn’t she?”

Before Nicky can tease him for naming her, say something about getting attached, a soft sneeze comes from above Joe’s head, and he jumps, the two kittens curled against his belly stretching grumpily before settling down again.

The sneezey kitten unfurls herself from where she was hiding behind Joe’s curls, waddling up to lick at Joe’s nose when he turns his face towards her.

“Oh my god,” Nicky grunts, heart squeezing as Joe coos at the kitten, scooping her up to encourage her to snuggle with Morticia.

He asks, heart in his throat, “should we call that one Wednesday, then?”

Joe gives him his widest, most sparkly heart eyes, eyebrows slanted up, and that’s how they become cat dads.

*

They plan at first to keep both Morticia and Wednesday at Nicky’s apartment. But then it becomes clear that Morticia gets upset when Joe’s gone, if she can’t snuggle in the hood of his sweater whenever she wants.

_(“She keeps meowing at the door, Joe.”_

_“Are you making that up to make me smile? It’s working. Put her on the phone.”_

_"Are we crazy cat people now?"_

_"Embrace it, baby.")_

They work through Joe’s (ridiculous) worries about not being fit to take care of her. Nicky had told him very gently and sweetly that while Joe’s feelings are always valid, that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard him say. Joe’s therapist actually laughed at him, and then patiently talked it through with him, that Nicky had already agreed to take her back if Joe got overwhelmed.

Morticia goes home with him that night, and there she stays.

_(“I feel bad about separating them. Too bad we don’t live together.”_

_“Hm. Well, my lease is up in two months, if you’d like to have that conversation.”_

_“What do you think, Morticia? Family cuddles every morning sounds better than shared custody, doesn’t it?”)_

Two months later, Nicky and Wednesday move into Joe’s apartment.

*

Living with Joe is wonderful, for the most part.

They slowly get accustomed to existing separately in the same space. It takes some adjusting, some compromising, but mostly it’s comfortable and lovely and reassuring.

There’s also Booker.

Joe’s told him about their code, how they show up for each other when need be, no questions asked. Nicky’s glad Joe has somebody who understands, and he’s glad Joe’s there for Booker.

It’s just a little difficult to get used to, once he realizes what it really entails.

One night Nicky wakes up cold, watches Joe shuffle around and pull his clothes on in the dark. He thinks he mutters a question, and then Joe just dips down, kisses his head and tells him Booker needs him before taking off.

Nicky doesn’t go back to sleep that night. He frets and paces and plays with Morticia and Wednesday and finally reorganizes the book shelf, glancing at his phone every few minutes, anxious to hear from Joe. Then, in the morning, Joe comes back acting like it’s an entirely normal occurrence.

Nicky doesn’t know how to tell him that when Joe said Booker needed him, his mind had gone to Joe’s scar, and that’s what he’d thought about all night.

Turns out it’s a fairly regular thing. Not really anything to worry about. At least, that's what's implied. Joe doesn't actually tell Nicky much about it, and he's not sure it's his place to ask. Not yet.

Another night he wakes up cold and alone, counts to two hundred, and then he stumbles out into the living room. Joe and Booker are sitting on the floor, talking in quiet whispers. They stop mid-sentence and look up at the same time when Nicky appears, except it’s actually three pairs of eyes, because Morticia is curled up in Joe’s arms, getting belly rubs, and she looks up too.

It feels a little like middle school, and Nicky is too tired. He mumbles about water, gets himself a glass, and goes back to bed. Holds Wednesday close to his chest, pets her and wishes Joe were there.

In the morning, Joe is laying beside him again. He smiles when Nicky turns over looking for him, looks tired the same way he does a lot of the time, actually.

Nicky wonders how many times in the past he’s smiled back, entirely oblivious that Joe hadn’t spent the night in bed.

When he doesn’t smile back, Joe’s slowly fades. He reaches his hand out, palm up, halfway between them.

Nicky reaches out too. Links his pinkie with Joe’s.

He asks, “are you okay?”

To Nicky, this seems like a logical question, all things considered. It hurts a little when Joe brushes him off.

“Yeah. Why?”

Nicky blinks at him, suddenly exhausted all over again, even though he’s just woken up. He opens his mouth, and then he closes it again.

There’s a knock on the bedroom door, and apparently Booker stayed the night.

“Joe, man, did you move your towels?”

Joe sighs, and then he has to get up to show Booker where the towels are now, because they’d moved them to a different closet while rearranging to fit in Nicky’s things.

Nicky stares up at the ceiling, alone again in bed.

Joe apologizes later, and Nicky feels relief that he didn’t have to say anything. And then he realizes Joe is only apologizing for having a guest over without telling him.

And so he says, no, it’s okay, it’s Booker. Don’t worry about it, he’s welcome whenever. Joe smiles, and they move on.

But mostly he only says that because if Joe isn’t comfortable yet to tell him when something is wrong, when he needs Booker’s support, he feels better knowing that at least the two of them are close and safe.

Except, the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders how often Joe is struggling with things and not telling him.

Worry grows like vines in his chest.

*

“Nicky.”

Nicky slots a few more books into place before he looks over his shoulder, corner of his mouth pulling up as he glances at Joe.

He’s on the sofa, one cat cradled in each arm like they’re babies, even though they’ve more than tripled in size, by now.

What a softie.

“Mhm?”

“This is the third time today you’ve reorganized that bookshelf.”

Nicky’s fingers hesitate mid-air. He’d been about to pull down the short story collections and switch their place with Joe’s plays.

Joe says, “come sit with me.”

Nicky does.

He sits close, curls an arm around Joe’s shoulders, smiles when Wednesday’s paw stretches out to rest against his arm.

Joe lays his head down on Nicky’s shoulder, and Nicky’s chest aches a little, even as he noses into those curls he loves so much. The night before, he’d woken up alone in bed.

Joe says, “it bothers you that I talk to Booker and not to you.”

It’s not a question. Not an accusation. Just a statement.

Nicky doesn’t say anything. Can’t. Doesn’t know why he feels so guilty.

Joe gently lets the cats down, admonishing them half-heartedly when they try to jump back up.

He turns to Nicky then, takes his hand. Waits.

Nicky says, “it’s not really that.” He sighs, looking away from Joe’s eyes. “I’m glad you have somebody who understands. A brother. I want you to have that. But it doesn’t feel good to be left by myself to worry whenever something might be wrong, and only to know something might be wrong because you’re just not there.” Nicky swallows, trying not to let his voice break. “You never tell me. I worry every time you disappear at night that if ever you’re really hurting, or something happened, I wouldn’t know until I got a call from Booker telling me which hospital to go to.”

Joe looks pained, but Nicky keeps talking because if he doesn’t now he doesn’t know that he ever will. “Maybe that’s not fair, Joe, I don’t know. But I worry all the time. That you’re hurting and you’re not telling me, because anytime I ask, that’s what you say. That it’s nothing. You don’t even tell me when or where you’re going, if I don’t wake up when you’re leaving. Do you know what that feels like? To not know where you are or why you left? Sometimes when you get up to use the washroom or get a drink, I’ll wake up, and there’s just this dread, because I don’t know if I need to be worried or not.”

Nicky turns his face away, because the tear that rolls down his cheek feels unfair.

Joe squeezes his hand.

“Look at me, please, Nicky.”

Nicky looks back, and Joe wipes the tear away with his thumb.

“I’m sorry.”

Nicky tries to shake his head, but Joe doesn’t let him wave it off.

“I am, Nicky. I didn’t realize. I should have. Thank you for telling me.”

Nicky blows out a shaky breath.

Joe says, “I would tell you if something was seriously wrong. When I tell you it’s nothing, I just mean that I know it’s a normal feeling for me, and it’ll pass. Booker’s the only person I’ve ever gone to with this stuff. I thought it would be less of a burden on you to keep going that way. I didn’t realize it was hurting you. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not a burden, Joe. I love you.”

“I love you too. So, we need to work on this. We can. I can.”

Nicky sniffles.

“Can we just- start with you letting me know where you’ve gone? Just wake me up. Tell me you’re with Booker. Even if you’re going to be back in bed by morning.”

Joe nods, eyes wide and shiny.

“I can do that.”

“Thank you.” he sighs, tired with the weight of all the sleepless nights. “And- oh, Joe. Honey.” He brings Joe’s hand to his lips, kisses his knuckles. “I hope you already know this, but I’m going to say it again anyway. You are the love of my life. I’m not going anywhere. If what’s best for you is to confide in Booker, that’s what I want you to do. But if you ever wanted to confide in me, you can. It’s not a burden. That’s what I’m here for.”

It’s his turn to wipe at Joe’s cheeks.

“Okay, Nicky. Okay.”

*

“Nicky?”

“Hm? Joe?”

“Are you awake?”

“Yeah. Booker comin’ over?”

“No, sweetheart. I thought- can I turn the light on?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“So.”

“Joe?”

“I just- sometimes I have bad dreams and- I- It’s better if I take my mind off of it before going back to sleep.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Um. You can go back to sleep if you like. Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“Mm. You’re so warm.”

“Mhm. What do you and Booker do when this happens?”

“Well- I usually don’t call Booker unless I feel really bad. Which doesn’t happen so much, these days. The dreams happen a lot more often than that, actually. I’ll just read for awhile, usually, so I don’t wake you up. But if I call Booker or he calls me, we’ll talk about football. Or books. Or play with the cats. But you’re not Booker.”

“No, I’m not. So football is probably out. Unless you’d like to discuss three-pointer slap shot slam dunks with me.”

“I would be interested to see you demonstrate what you think a three-pointer slap shot slam dunk looks like sometime. But no, sweetheart. That’s alright.”

“Okay. Your loss. I know it’s intimidating to be with a man with as much knowledge and passion for sports as I have. We call that kind of cowardice a forfeit penalty strike out, in the business.”

“Oh, yes. The sports business, is it?”

“That’s the one.”

“I see.”

“Do you, Joe? Do you see?”

“No. You’re too sporty for me, I think.”

“Hm, I think so too. I don’t know why you’re laughing. This is a very serious discussion.”

“Right, yes, of course. Apologies. See, I have this thing where when my boyfriend laughs I tend to laugh too. I think it’s called empathy, or love, or something.”

“Apology not accepted. That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard- ah! Joe!”

“Hello.”

“Hello. Mm.”

“You seem a lot more awake, suddenly. Is there a game on, Mr. Sports-Man?”

“Yes. _A game_ _of love.”_

“You’re a geek.”

“Is this news to you?”

“No. I love you. Thank you.”

“I love you too. Anytime, Joe. Seriously.”

*

Nicky likes to think that he and Joe are good, fair cat dads. That they love their babies equally.

It would, however, be a lie to say that there aren’t special bonds. Joe and Morticia, Nicky and Wednesday.

Wednesday is the more energetic of the two. She likes to play. Nicky can entertain her for an hour straight with nothing but a piece of string.

Joe (while cradling Morticia in his arms like a baby) points out that Nicky, too, is being entertained for an hour straight with a piece of string, by watching her chase it. Nicky doesn’t respond to his teasing, because he’s busy leading her in circles around the coffee table.

Morticia is more mellow. Her and Joe are nap buddies. Or, anytime Joe is going to fall asleep on the couch, she picks up on it like she has a sixth sense and cuddles up on his chest so that she can nap with him.

For Joe’s birthday, Nicky gets him and Morticia matching sweaters. She hates hers, and won’t let them put it on her. But she loves crawling inside of Joe’s.

*

People talk about stagnancy in relationships. How routine and familiarity make things boring. How what was once charming becomes the object of loathing.

Nicky comes home from work to find everything he’s grown used to, everything he loves, all in its place, exactly where he expects it to be. Their bookshelf. The cats’ dishes. The scratched coffee table that they keep saying they’re going to replace, but never do. Joe in one of his big sweaters, conked out on the sofa, snoring a little, Morticia purring away on his chest. Wednesday circling Nicky’s feet, looking for pets.

His heart is so warm and full it could burst.


	4. Chapter 4

There’s a cold, whistling storm raging through the night, and Joe couldn’t be happier.

He is in bed, wearing layers and layers and layers of warm clothes. A hoodie, and socks, and sweatpants. To his right, Nicky is sprawled out on his back, bundled up just the same, comfy and cozy, fingers of his right hand buried in Wednesday’s fur, fingers of his left laced with Joe’s. Morticia is curled up at their feet, purring away.

Nicky’d fretted as the storm rolled in. Unplugged the electronics, got all the candles out, practised lighting the matches, and finally reorganized the bookshelf. Until Joe finally wrapped him up from behind, kissed his neck and swayed them back and forth until Nicky smiled, relaxed a touch. Then he took him and the cats to bed.

He’s reading out loud from Nicky’s old, battered copy of Pride and Prejudice. It’s not a book that Joe particularly feels the need to reread. He finds that the language and the setting bore him more than the romance compels him. But Nicky loves it, reads it at least once every few years. Apparently read it five times over the course of one particularly stressful semester of college. Without fail, he always smiles his sweet little smile at all the flirting, always a sucker for romance. And for the increasingly affected, snooty voice Joe assigns to Darcy.

“Stop laughing! I bet he was meant to sound just like this!” Joe's grinning even as he's defending himself, quietly hoping that Nicky never stops giggling like he is now, never stops being as taken with Joe as Joe is with him. Never loses the playfulness in his eyes, the warmth. 

“Of course, sorry. It’s just, it’s funny to hear you say the things he says. You’re much more of a Bingley, I think." Nicky presses his palm flat against Joe's tummy, warm even through his clothes, considering. "Too sweet for your own good.”

“Does that make you Jane, then? You’re certainly lovely enough. Optimistic. You bring the best out in everything and everyone. Though, I don’t think I would have handled being away from you for so long nearly so well. I would have socked Mr. Darcy in the face if he tried to keep me from you.” Joe drops his voice down into a deep, lilting accent, much more suited to Darcy, watches Nicky’s eyebrow twitch up and his cheeks darken just a little. _“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”_

(Maybe Joe’s been working on the accent since Nicky admitted that after reading the book for the first time at the tender age of fourteen, he developed quite the crush on Mr. Darcy, and perhaps has never lost his affection for the character).

Nicky turns his face towards the ceiling as his blush spreads, stubbornly trying (and failing) to quell his grin. Giggles, squirming happily as Joe starts kissing his neck. “You can’t just read me Jane Austen and say things like that. You incurable romantic.” He turns his head back, rubs their noses together. Pouts out his lips, just a little, shivering when Joe kisses him. And kisses him. And kisses him some more. And Nicky holds him close in return, opening up like a flower. 

“Mm. Why can’t I, if it gets me kisses like this?”

“Go put the cats in the living room, come back and close the door, and we’ll see what else it gets you.”

“Yes, sir.”

Things are good.

*

Nicky’s taken up knitting, and Joe is a little bit fascinated.

More than a little bit. A lot.

For one thing, the whole endeavour begins with one of Nicky’s thoughtful little smiles and the rather ambitious idea that he is going to make Joe a sweater. This pleases Joe for many reasons. His love of sweaters. His love of Nicky. The knowledge that Nicky pours all of his love into little projects and services like this, the same way Joe pours his into words and touches.

For another thing, watching Nicky’s long fingers carefully work the needles through the yarn does things to his brain. And his heart rate. And how tight his pants are, if he lets his thoughts get carried away, especially when Nicky just wants to finish up a few more lines of stitches in bed before he puts it away for the night and Joe can do nothing but watch, snuggled up to him, admiring the concentration in his eyes, the movement of the tendons in his hands. Indulge in the game he makes out of tickling his fingers against Nicky’s thigh until he realizes that those few lines of stitches can wait until tomorrow, after all.

And for another, Nicky happens to be knitting, sitting on the floor in front of the sofa with Wednesday curled up at his shoulders, sunlight washed warm over the two of them, casting reddish highlights in their hair and fur, when Joe first notices a grey hair on Nicky’s head.

It’s just one, near his temple. Short and unassuming. Shimmery in the sunlight.

Joe stares at it, and he thinks. Thinks about how he’d stopped making plans for the future for a long time, before he met Nicky. Even after his wrist healed over. For years, he couldn’t handle more than taking things day by day.

He thinks about Wednesday and Morticia, and the road trip he and Nicky are going to take in the summer. Already have the time booked off of work. Thinks about what it’s going to be like to watch Nicky go grey, the lines of his face wear deeper, watch him grow old. To go grey and wrinkled beside him.

He thinks about it, and for the first time in many, many years, the future doesn’t feel scary or hopeless. He feels curious about it. Like maybe it’s something he wants.

“I can feel you staring.” Nicky says it softly, without looking up from his knitting. Has a little smile on his face, eyes crinkling a little, faint dimple pressed into his cheek, one joyous crease, but mostly still smooth and bright and young.

Joe says, “yeah. I love you, is all.”

*

Joe gasps, pleasure curling hot and insistent through his belly.

_“Oooh, Nicky.”_

He pants, blinking slowly. Shivers with the sensation of fluttery kisses, before Nicky emerges from under the covers, hair sticking up in every direction, pupils blown, lips slicked red.

He moans when Nicky kisses him, eager, breaths trembling. Starts trailing his hands down, helping guide Nicky’s thighs apart on either side of his hips, just getting a hand around his ass to _finally_ -

They both freeze at the sound of scratching at the bedroom door.

_Meeeow. Mrreow. Meooooow._

Nicky’s head flops down onto his shoulder, and Joe groans.

“Terrible. They’re needy little babies.”

Nicky whines. “I’m the only needy baby you should be worrying about right now.”

Joe tuts softly, kissing him the same way he intends to fuck him, deep and thorough and slow.

“We’ll just have to be quiet until they think we’re asleep, and they’ll go find something else to do. Are you too needy to stay quiet for a minute, baby?”

His fingers creep slowly over Nicky’s inner thigh, closer and closer to where he’s already slick and ready, gasping and squirming when it becomes clear that Joe’s about to play with him some more.

“I can be quiet- _uuuuh, Joe, ah! Fffuck, oh, oooh.”_ Nicky’s tucks his face into Joe’s neck, then, flushed, rutting down against Joe as slender fingers begin to relentlessly seek out that spot, again and again, when he’s only just made it through Joe’s drawn out, torturous and delicious version of preparation. Only lasted so long because they’d both kept their hands well away from his cock, and then he’d taken it upon himself to suck Joe a little and cool down before they started, but now- mm.

“Mhm.” Joe’s lips find his ear, and Nicky shudders from head to toe, gasping, doesn’t think he could stop himself from rocking his hips in time with the thrusts of Joe’s fingers if he tried. “Just remember, you’re going to come while I fuck you. Whether or not it’s the second time tonight is up to you, now, sweetheart.”

Nicky whimpers, trying to keep up with Joe’s mouth, suddenly on his.

Maybe the cats wander away from the door after that, maybe they don’t. Joe and Nicky don’t notice.

*

Joe knows that when Nicky reorganizes the bookshelf, something is up.

Nicky’s a very steady person. Usually, nothing is up. His emotions are straightforward. He only wavers if something is really wrong, or there’s something rational to be worried about.

Joe’s leaning against the doorframe, had only intended to ask if Nicky wanted a tea, because he was about to make one for himself. But he’d found Nicky on the floor in front of the bookshelf, seemingly switching up the novels to be arranged by what appears to be genre rather than alphabetically, as he’d left them the last time this happened, when Wednesday ate something she shouldn’t have and got sick enough that they had to take her to the vet.

Both Wednesday and Morticia are doing great, currently sniffing around Nicky, curious as to what he’s up to. Joe is also doing great. Eating and sleeping a relatively normal amount. Smiling often.

As far as he knows, Nicky is doing great too. Just that morning, he’d pressed Joe into the pillows and shown him just _how_ great. Has been finding lots of extra opportunities for them to spend time in bed the last few days, in fact.

Joe can’t think of anything that would warrant this reorganization.

He shuffles forward, drops down beside Nicky. Offers a smile when Nicky glances up at him, shuffling books around. Indulgently allows Wednesday to crawl onto his lap and settle.

“Doing some reorganizing?”

He keeps his tone light, fingers stroking over Wednesday’s fur. If Nicky picks up on his probing, he doesn’t let on.

“Mhm. Thought it would look nicer this way.”

Joe nods, watching his big, careful hands work away.

He looks to Nicky’s face, then. He looks calm enough, no worry lines or anything. Looks as well rested as Nicky ever does, with those eye bags of his. Handsome as always.

He looks to Joe again, fingers pausing. A question in his eyes.

Joe smiles, and glances at his lips. Is pleased when Nicky smiles back, leans in for a kiss.

“Mm. D’you want a tea?”

Nicky hums, seeking out his lips for one more lingering kiss before turning back to the shelf.

“Sure. Thanks.”

*

Joe decides that he’ll get Nicky to open up when they go to bed that night.

It’s easy. Nicky’s easy, really. All Joe has to do is lean up on his elbow, gazing down at Nicky on his back beside him. Slide off his reading glasses, put them on the nightstand, lightly stroke Nicky’s cheek, look him in the eye with a quirked eyebrow. Smile, tilt his head.

He doesn’t even have to say anything.

Nicky starts, “I’ve been thinking.”

Joe kisses his cheek.

“That can’t be good.”

Nicky smiles up at him, sweet and maybe a little shy. Then he reaches under Joe’s pillow (the one that’s mostly undisturbed because Joe has no self control and is already tucked into Nicky’s side) and pulls out a small box.

Joe blinks at it.

Nicky smiles at him, and says, “This has been there for three nights. At first I thought maybe you were ignoring it, maybe it was too much, but that’s not something you would do. And I suppose it was silly of me to think you’d notice it there when you always end up sprawled all over my side of the bed.” His eyes sparkle, and he adds, “My cuddle bug.”

Joe’s mouth is hanging half open, eyes widening as Nicky holds the box out, and lets him take it. Nods at him a little, and watches him crack it open.

“Nicky,” he breathes. Feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him, running his thumbs over the velvety softness of the box, almost scared to touch the matte silver metal, the fiery orange tones of the gemstone set into it, small and delicate, simple and beautiful.

“It’s not an engagement ring. I know that’s not really our thing. More like a promise ring, or just an _I love you_ , I suppose. I saw it in that antique shop the other week. Thought it would look nice on you, and then I thought, that’s crazy. I can’t just buy him a ring out of the blue. That’s not something we do. But then I thought, why not? I love you. You could do with some spoiling.”

Joe sucks in a breath, and holds the box back out for Nicky. “Put it on for me?”

Nicky carefully slides it out of the box, presses a kiss to Joe’s knuckles before slipping it perfectly onto his finger, the one that usually holds his metal bands, now sitting in their box on the nightstand until the morning.

“Did you have it sized?”

Nicky smirks, a little. “Yeah. Morticia isn’t the one who stole your other ring.”

Joe shakes his head, grinning in disbelief. He’d _thought_ it was strange that she would be able to get it from the nightstand, and then that Nicky had miraculously found it under the bed a few days later. Except, apparently he'd taken it to some jeweller to get the right measure for _this_ ring.

He stares down at the sparkling stone, eyes growing a little misty. “That was sneaky of you.”

Nicky brushes his fingers against his cheek, agrees, “A little. Do you like it?”

Joe sniffles, launches himself into Nicky’s side. Holds his hand out so that they both can admire the way the orange and the silver contrast his skin, snuggling close as Nicky curls an arm tight around his shoulders.

“I love it. I love _you._ Thank you, Nicky. It's beautiful.”

Nicky kisses his temple, cupping his face and pressing their foreheads together, pouting his lips a little because if Joe cries, he’ll cry.

“You're beautiful. I love you.”

*

Joe’s hands are raised in a placating gesture as he slowly advances, even as he’s doing his best to look stern.

“Morticia. _Don’t. You. Dare._ ”

His authority is undermined by Nicky’s giggling behind him, clutching a squirming Wednesday to his chest so she can’t get at the impending mess.

So much for a united front.

“I know we don’t have favourites, but I think this proves that Wednesday is objectively the better child.”

Joe opens his mouth to refute such an offensive claim, right in front of Morticia’s sensitive ears, no less, but it’s at that moment that she decides to destroy the kitchen.

Joe can’t even fathom how it is that she got on the kitchen table. All the chairs are tucked in. She either jumped up from the floor or found a way onto the counter and jumped from there, which is even more baffling.

Was it his own fault for leaving the spread of hummus, veggies, rice and soup on the table unattended while he went to tell Nicky dinner was ready? Perhaps. Did he anticipate that his sweet, mild-mannered Morticia would jump up on the table and manage to land each paw in a different element of the meal, meowing and swishing her tail, clearly agitated and not knowing how to get herself out of the predicament? No. He did not.

When she makes her move, the chaos is immediate and unprecedented.

The force of her back legs kicking off from the table upends the pot of soup, sending a wave of brown liquid sloshing over onto the floor, her other leg leaving a huge cavern through the middle of the hummus with a wet sound that makes Joe wince. She has to make another bound to clear the table completely, managing to tromp on and knock over the tray with the veggies, scrabbling for a moment when she then lands completely in the pot of rice, sending grains in every direction, and then finally makes her escape by leaping directly into Joe’s arms, all of the food that’s clung to her fur in the endeavour smearing over his sweater, his beard, her sopping tail whipping and spattering him with hot liquid.

He blinks down at her a moment, stunned. Blinks at the huge puddle of soup on the floor, and the spillage all over the table. Blinks down at her, blinking up at him.

She meows at him, and tries to lick her paw, thick with hummus. Joe has one single moment of clarity to shift her so that she can’t, unsure if it’s safe for her to eat.

Then he turns to Nicky, eyes wide, at a loss.

Nicky’s just turning around after closing the bedroom door, seemingly has had the sense to put Wednesday away in there while they deal with the mess.

He strides forward, lips twitching with the effort not to smile, and Joe doesn’t know if he finds that irritating or if it makes him feel better.

“Breathe, Joe.”

Morticia meows, as if to agree. Nicky leans close to kiss his cheek, careful not to touch any of the food coating his clothes. Then he bops Morticia’s nose.

“Lucky you, Morticia! Now you get to take a bath! Doesn’t that sound fun, Joe?”

Joe’s lips are twitching now too.

“So, pizza for dinner, then?”

“I’ll call for it before I start cleaning this up.” Nicky shoots him a sparkling grin. “Don’t forget to take your ring off before you get her in the bath. Might want to hop in the shower after, too. Got a little something in your hair.”

Joe groans, grin taking over his face before he can even help it, turning away and adjusting Morticia in his arms, listening to Nicky snort and mutter about Morticia losing bedtime cuddle privileges (as if; Joe might be the serial snuggler of the two of them, but Nicky is physically incapable of withholding things that will make Joe or the cats happy. Particularly if Joe bats his eyelashes a little bit), dreading already the sheer willpower its going to take to get her in the tub.

“Fine. Extra olives on my half, please.”

*

Joe knows that he doesn't have a kind of depression that can be fixed and done away with entirely, as he'd once hoped. It's a part of him, part of how his brain is wired. Something he can successfully manage and live with. Not something there's a cure for. 

He also knows now- and this took a long, long time for him to learn -that it being a part of him doesn't mean it has to be hopeless. He knows there will be lows in the future. He knows that a perfectly happy, energetic season doesn't mean he should stop leaning on his support system, stop therapy, stop being prepared. 

But he also knows now what it's like to go to a therapy session and feel good. Have only good news to share, hopes and dreams and talk about Nicky and the cats, Booker and Nile. 

He knows what it's like now to be hopeful, even while knowing that more difficult seasons will come again. Because he knows he has love and support in his life to help him get through it.

*

“Nicky, sweetheart. Wake up. Hey. I can see you smiling. Mm. Morning, sunshine.”

“Hmph. No, I’m still asleep.”

“Oh, really?”

“Ah! Too early for tickles. What’s gotten into you this morning?”

“Dunno. Missed you. Dreams are too far away. Suppose I can let you sleep awhile longer, though.”

“Hm, no. Kiss.”

“Yes, sir.”

*

_Joe takes a deep breath, trying to summon up the easy confidence he never even knew he exuded like an aura until it started to vacate him sometime between that first taste of loneliness, the scary leap of the summer after high school and the terrifying, exhilarating years of college. He knows he looks a lot worse for the wear now, tiredness smudging his once bright eyes, his beard now long and his sweater engulfing, like all of the clothes he wears now, as if to hide himself away behind them, as much as it's because he finds himself cold all the time, these days. Knows those people he surrounded himself with in his youth would barely recognize him now. Wouldn’t know what to do with his tired lack of stories and anecdotes to share, no longer seamlessly commanding the rooms he’s in, wouldn’t understand the way he holds himself now, like a frail tree in winter, shivery, almost confused as to where its own leaves have gone._

_But he’s ready to start trying to live again, now. To try and get some of that back._

_He walks into the bookstore, his old, familiar tracks of optimism running in his head, even if it’s a little harder to believe them, now, not to cringe away when he thinks of the best in every situation, not to sarcastically correct himself to keep his hopes small._

_The small, weary old man at the counter is on the phone, taking something down with a pen in an important looking little ledger book, so Joe can’t even offer him a polite smile as he shuffles in, let alone make any small talk. But it’s okay. Maybe when he goes to pay._

_He wanders through the stacks of books, heart beating a little bit too fast, a little bit of heat in his cheeks, for whatever reason. He’s fairly certain he’s the only other person in the store, at once lonely and wholly comforting the way only used bookstores know how to be._

_It feels scary, making this effort to be sociable. He misses the days when it was never a conscious decision, just something he did, just who he was._

_He wants comfort. Wants to crawl into bed and sleep for a long time, actually. But he knows that’s not really what he wants. That’s only what feels safe and easy._

_He finds himself turning and walking towards the aisle he knows has on its shelfs the works of Naguib Mahfouz, his favorite author. If he’s making the effort to meet new people, he can afford himself the luxury of picking up a book he already knows he’ll love, can’t he? He slips into the aisle, having to stop somewhat suddenly when he realizes that he isn’t the only customer in the store after all._

_The man is about his own height, standing directly in front of the shelf Joe wants to get at. He's quiet, both presently, and with the air of somebody who is quiet in general, somebody shy and tentative. He has an unremarkable haircut, is wearing unremarkable clothes, unremarkable shoes, hunched over somewhat, frowning and examining the blurbs on the back of two books that Joe knows are both well worth the read._

_Joe takes a breath and doesn’t let himself think before he says, “ah- Naguib Mahfouz?”_

_The man startles a little, looks up at him with wide, green-blue eyes. They’re heavy-lidded, with great bags underneath them, eyelashes long and fluttery, very pleasing pink lips parting just barely in surprise. Remarkable._

_Joe continues, hope beginning to blossom in his chest, “he’s good. You’re a fan?”_

_The man smiles, and Joe feels his own growing just that much wider, more confident in return, but then the man’s face goes something like apologetic, and Joe wonders if he shouldn’t have gone straight home and wrapped himself up in the grounding weight of all of his blankets, after all._

_“I hope I’ll be a fan. Just trying to find something to start with.”_

_He blinks his wide eyes at Joe, and all of the determination Joe had built up in his therapist's office that afternoon goes flat and dull, all the energy to figure out how to continue the conversation leeching out, even as Joe notes absently that he likes the deep, soft lilt of the man’s voice._

_Joe offers him a final, hesitant smile, the polite sort you share with a stranger, because that’s all this man is, all he’ll be, because Joe isn’t the sort of person who can just make himself friends, anymore. Even though his therapist says otherwise, says he has to try, even though Joe knew that this would happen, that he would find out he can’t, after all, and he'd break his own heart all over again. And then in the way he is terrified of, even still, years after it’s first begun to stalk him, the numbness rushes up in his chest like a bird of prey looming over a clearing, ready to pluck him up and sink in her razor sharp claws, devour him and spit him out raw and digested, left to try and heal himself over again._

_He turns away to the nearest shelf, and busies himself by reaching forward to brush his fingers across the books, waiting for one to catch his fingers so he can make his exit. Hopes that the man at the counter will still be on the phone, and the exchange will be quick and painless._

_The man with the two books doesn’t let him sink into himself, though. Not the way Joe has found people are content to do, to watch him shrink away, because it’s easier than trying to figure out where the bright light he once was has gone off to, why the flame fizzled out._

_The man shuffles a step closer to Joe, flipping the books around so that their titles are visible to him. Doesn’t know yet that Joe recognized them from the back covers alone because he has copies on his nightstand that he reads again and again when the anxiety in his chest makes him want to throw up._

_“Would you recommend either of these, then?”_

_Joe looks back to him, at his kind eyes, the sweet quirk of his lips. Smiles despite himself, clings onto the thread of excitement and begins to explain why the book in Nicky’s right hand is the perfect one to start with._

_*_

That’s Nicky, he’s found, again and again. He’s always there. He’s a buoy, or a lighthouse, or some beautiful lifeline in the dark. The metaphor has changed in his head over the years, gets away from him sometimes. Always comes back. Sometimes a constant star, or a touchstone, or a candle or a pair of open arms or a smile and a laugh so sweet and familiar, a kind word or a comfortable, companionable silence or a gentle touch, reassuring. An _I love you_. A hand to hold. Somebody who sees Joe, and who Joe knows how to make laugh, knows he can do that even when he doesn’t know if he’s okay or not, if he’s numb, if he wants to be alive. Somebody to raise cats with. To talk to, about anything and everything. Somebody with stories to tell, and who wants to hear Joe’s. Who is as sure as Joe that there are more still that they’re going to live, together. Somebody who Joe knows he wants to be around for, to be all those things for in return.

He’s Nicky. And he’s not going anywhere.


	5. Booker's Epilogue: Bros For life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: this chapter contains specific references to Joe's suicide attempt, mentions of blood, and allusions to booker's past alcoholism.

Booker remembers not liking Nicky, at first.

It was a hard thing to explain, even in his own head. Of course he’d been proud of Joe for managing to get out of his head a little bit, to be socializing again, and Nicky seemed like a nice enough guy. It felt like the knot that had tied itself tight in his stomach that night when Joe had called him sounding drunk, saying that he fucked up and he needed a ride to the hospital was finally easing, just a little.

(Joe didn’t drink. It was the blood loss. And Booker isn’t proud of it, but he’d shouted at Joe, who’d been sobbing, clutching the dishtowel that had probably been white once but was now crimson tight around his wrist the entire way to the hospital. Booker had wondered where the hell the two boys who used to kick a football back and forth for hours with grins on their faces as the sun set behind them just because they were young and alive and _happy_ had gone to die. He’d been hurt and afraid, grieving his own childhood, and Joe’s, and wondering how he hadn’t noticed sooner that Joe had gotten so skinny, that the bruises under his eyes had grown so dark, why he hadn’t pushed harder all the times lately that Joe had left him hanging to wallow in bed.)

Joe’d been put on a watch after his wrist was stitched up, and it was obvious to Booker then that he hadn’t thought about the consequences if what he’d attempted didn’t work, had never considered what happens to people who are considered a danger to themselves and others. He’d been terrified, and Booker, who had been through it before (but he’d never actually attempted it like Joe had), knew that it was also the first time Joe realized that he was really _ill,_ now that there were a stream of doctors and nurses and people asking why he’d done it and him not being able to explain it, not even to Booker _._ That even though he’d been in therapy for years already, this was the first time he realized he had to live for the rest of his life with the fact that he was never magically going to get better.

 _Booker_ went through all that with Joe. _Booker_ passed on his own greatest coping mechanism to him, getting lost in fiction, and it helped Joe in a way that nothing to date had managed to do. And then Joe started talking about the guy he’d met in the bookstore, and their little book club, smiling to himself and avoiding Booker’s eyes like he was shy about it, which was a sign that it really meant something to him, that he wasn’t joking about it and he didn’t want Booker to tease him. And all Booker could think about was what was going to happen if this _Nicky_ broke Joe’s heart and ruined books for him in one go.

But Nicky made Joe smile, and Booker, who still had nightmares about returning to Joe’s apartment that night after he’d been taken to the psych ward looking like a scared little boy and scrubbing the blood off of the bathroom tiles, wasn’t about to say anything to ruin it.

The conversation he and Joe had after that first kiss with Nicky was bizarre. Joe’d been the one to coach Booker through asking out a girl for the first time, and who had pressed a pack of mints in his hand and told him not to be a coward when he realized he wanted to kiss her. In their dorm in college, there was a framed photograph of the two of them posing in crop tops, Booker with all four of the girls who lived on their floor trying to kiss his blushing cheeks, Joe with his arms around the guy he’d been dating at the time, with “RESIDENT SLUTS <3” sprawled over top in sparkly pink sharpie. There’d even been a year when Joe ran the campus paper’s dating advice column, for fuck’s sake. Joe was a magnet. He could pick up anyone he wanted, and his confidence had always been easy.

But the day after Nicky apparently slept in Joe’s bed and both of them kept all of their clothes on and did nothing more than kiss like shy, fumbling teenagers, Joe had called Booker up in a panic and asked him for advice. Booker had been amused while he stumbled through the run down of the previous nights’ events, and then Joe got to the point, and all he felt then was bone-deep exhaustion.

 _(“I like him so much, Book. And I’m terrified. I don’t know why I feel like this. I’ve never had any trouble being with people before. But I feel like I can’t even take my shirt off in front of him. I don’t want him to_ see _it. I don’t want to tell him about it, I don’t want to be the person who did that to himself. I’m so ashamed. I don’t think he even knows anything about any of this mental health stuff. He’s like- normal. And I want to be normal, and I want to be what he deserves, but I don’t even feel like I deserve him. Even I can’t live with me half the time, how can I ask him to? How do I do this, man? Should I even bother?” He’d inhaled sudden and shaky, then, a rasp in the receiver of the phone, and Booker knew he was crying. “It would be so much easier just to let him go and find somebody better and keep him as a friend, wouldn’t it? I don’t want to lose him after he sees me at my worst. I don’t want to watch him start to hate me. I can’t- I won’t be okay, if that happens.”)_

That conversation lasted almost two hours, and even though Booker shared Joe’s worries and fears, he’d told him what he knew both of their therapists would probably say, which was that Joe deserved to have love in his life, and it sounded like Nicky wanted him as he was, so he had to risk it, he had to take the leap if he wanted to let somebody in.

He didn’t tell Joe how terrified he was at the idea of watching him fall.

*

Two months later, Joe called to say that Nicky wanted to cook dinner and meet his boyfriend’s loved ones.

_(“Yes, dumbass, that’s you. And listen, man- I told him about my depression, and he knows you and I are kind of in that together. I can’t imagine why it would come up, but just so you know, he knows.”)_

Of course, Joe, who didn’t drink, and presumably didn’t think about Nicky serving alcohol because of course Nicky never had to him, didn’t think to tell Nicky that Booker was in Alcoholics Anonymous.

_(Booker had taken his shoes off and followed Joe, grinning like the sun, into Nicky’s kitchen, where he was doing something complicated to some zucchinis in a pan._

_“It’s great to meet you, Sebastien.” Nicky had a warm smile, and Booker realized Joe hadn’t been exaggerating at all about how striking his eyes are. He found himself at ease, sitting in the chair Joe directed him to at the table, making a face at Joe to tease him at how obviously ecstatic and infatuated he was, practically squirming in delight at his boyfriend and his best friend in a room together. Because he grew up with a huge, loving family, and apparently that's the sort of thing people like that enjoy._

_“Can I get you a drink?” Nicky was wiping his hands on a dish towel, and as he spun towards the refrigerator, Booker saw in Joe’s eyes the moment he realized what was about to happen. “I haven’t been drinking much lately, myself,” he’d smiled a little the same way Joe did whenever he talked about Nicky, “so there’s plenty of beer, and I have a bottle of red wine from my boss that it would be a shame to let go to waste. You’d be doing me a favour to drink it, really.”_

_Joe winced, mouth opening as if to explain, fingers fluttering, watching Nicky straighten up with the wine bottle in his hands._

_Booker beat him there. “Thank you, Nicky, but water will be fine for me.” He tried not to let his smile come off too tight, and watched Nicky hesitate for a moment before understanding dawned on him, locking eyes with Joe and blushing a little bit._

_“Of course. My mistake.” He returned the bottle to the refrigerator, and came back up with a pitcher of water.)_

He’d been very polite about it, in fact. Hadn’t brought it up again, and stuck to water himself. He was a sweet guy, if a little quiet, and an excellent cook. Booker got along with him fine, found out they had similar opinions about English literature, and disagreed completely about French literature (which meant that Nicky had _read_ French literature, a point in his favour in Booker’s mind), and Nicky even sent him home with a generous portion of leftovers. Joe smiled and laughed a lot that night, and Nicky obviously adored him, loved to make him smile.

It was a good night, but Joe had been right. Nicky was a very _normal_ guy, the kind who had never been to therapy, let alone learned how to be with somebody who was mentally ill. Booker was worried about what would happen when Joe inevitably had a low.

But the weeks kept going by, and Joe and Nicky settled into their relationship. And then of course Nicky had to go and introduce Booker to Nile, and then not only were all of their lives becoming linked very fast, but Booker was having a crisis of his own over whether or not he should go for it with her (Nile very pointedly told him that yes, he should.) Joe talked him through it just like Booker had talked him through getting together with Nicky, and then Booker was more inclined to be hopeful about things. It helped that Nile was very persuasive about why Nicky was a good guy, and why she thought he was good for Joe.

One of the first things he learned about her, after all, was that she was very smart, and often right.

*

Booker is most skeptical about Nicky for reasons that have nothing to do with Joe’s depression. Nicky, despite his sweetness, and his eyes, strikes him as a very odd match for Joe. He’s a quiet guy. Joe’s changed as he’s gotten older, sure, settled a lot more, gotten sort of quiet himself. Maybe it makes a lot of sense that what was right for him when he was young isn’t right for him anymore. But when Booker thinks of all of Joe’s past relationships, and the things that made him happy, they all involve noise, and exuberance, and excitement. Certainly they involve guys with a much keener fashion sense than Nicky.

It says a lot about the kind of person Nile is and how much Booker cares about her that he can be honest with her about these concerns. That she doesn’t get defensive or upset for Nicky, instead taking a moment to think before squeezing Booker’s hand and earnestly saying that she gets it, and she would feel the same if she were Joe’s best friend, but that she truly believes Nicky is good for him, and even if it doesn’t work out, the last thing Nicky would ever do would be to hurt him or abandon him.

The four of them go out to a restaurant with a bar and a dance floor one night. It’s wonderful, because Joe has always loved to dance and Booker immediately sees his eyes light up, and Nile turns out to be a whiz on the floor.

Nicky, on the other hand, is awful. He’s all elbows and knees, awkward as anything Booker has ever seen. His best moves involve cheesy hand gestures and laughing at himself.

Joe laughs with him, though, and Booker is reminded again that even if he doesn’t understand it, Nicky makes Joe smile. The force of his grin is blinding when Nicky starts twirling him around way too slow for the beat of the Soulja Boy song pumping through the speakers. Then he starts leading him around in a dance that might have been cool fifty years ago to the tune of a slow fiddle jig, and Booker realizes with a jolt that this look on Joe’s face, this one he’s never seen before, might just be what he looks like when he’s in love.

He and Nile tear up the floor all night, while Joe and Nicky eventually drift over to the balcony, whispering and giggling, Nicky’s arm around Joe’s shoulders as they lean over the rail and watch the sun set.

*

Joe’s low eventually came. Booker knew it was bad when Joe asked him to make sure he went to therapy, and he knew he had cause to be _worried_ when he saw the bruises under Joe’s eyes, and the state of his beard. Then he asked about Nicky, and Joe only shrugged, staring out the window and mumbling about how the past few weeks had been busy.

He realized that he was _afraid_ when Joe came out of his therapist’s office crying, and again, Booker found himself in a position to say a lot of optimistic things that he figured his own therapist would probably say to him, stuff he wasn’t even sure he believed, but that tended to put him in the headspace to force himself to get better, with the knowledge that people were pulling for him. So he’d driven Joe home, intending to follow him in since it didn’t seem like Nicky was around, but Joe didn’t get out of the car. Instead, he told Booker _why_ he was crying, and what exactly his therapist had asked about Nicky and the medication, about the conversation that happened afterwards. Booker, terrified that he was about to witness Joe getting his heart broken, helped him make a phone call.

That’s the day that Booker changed his mind about Nicky. Because he picked up the phone on the first ring, and Booker heard him asking in a rush if Joe was okay and if he still felt he needed space, saying how he missed Joe, and then Booker climbed out of the car to give them privacy.

( _You’re a fucking dumbass, Joe. Why did you tell him you needed space when we both know that’s the last thing you’ll ever need? You’re crying about him not being here when you’re the one who pushed him away,_ _you idiot_ , Booker had thought.)

Less than thirty minutes later Nicky was there with a backpack, even though it was a Sunday night and everybody had work in the morning. Then Joe was crying into his chest, and Nicky was locking eyes with Booker over his head and saying “thank you for being there for him.“

Booker left them after it became clear that Nicky had it handled, knew at least how to count Joe’s breathing with him so he wouldn’t make himself sick with anxiety, steered him gently but firmly into his apartment.

He got a text from an unknown number that night who turned out to be Nicky, letting him know that Joe gave him a spare key and he was going to stay with him for a little while, that Nicky got him to eat something before he passed out in bed. He’d sent a follow up asking if Booker had any advice for him, because he knew Booker had depression too and had known Joe his whole life, and he just wanted to be sure he was doing everything he could.

Nile, who he was FaceTiming, asked him why he was staring silently at his phone, and Booker told her that Nicky wasn’t so bad after all, before texting back that Joe will forget to drink water when he’s doing really bad and then get frustrated and confused about why he has a headache, so make sure he drinks some, and it’s okay to laugh when he’s impressed that the headache goes away after, because it’s really funny that he never learns, and Joe does better when he doesn’t feel like you’re pitying him. And then, with only a little bit of hesitation, he sent a much more serious message about how Joe uses clippers for his beard whenever he can’t make it to the barbershop, and it’s a red flag if Nicky finds razors, that he should be sure to keep track of his own, and he offers to take Nicky for coffee sometime to pass on some of the other things the doctors at the hospital told him to look out for. 

(He hopes fervently that Nicky will never have to clean up blood off of the bathroom floor.)

Nile says _“I told you so!”_ about Nicky with a big, beautiful grin on her face, and Booker agrees, because she did.

*

When Booker finds out that Joe and Nicky have adopted cats together, he frets.

(“Nile, _chérie,_ you should have taken them all home. I would have happily kept all seven.”

“I know, Book, and I love that you’re such a softie that you would break the terms of your lease to become a crazy cat man. But that’s exactly why I took them to Nicky’s.”)

When he finds out only a few months later that they’re moving in together, he does panic a little, largely because Joe doesn’t seem worried at all, seems to be doing better than he has in years, in fact, and Booker is scared that a crash is coming. But again, it turns out that he had no reason to worry. Months go by, and he sees a lot more of Nicky, and comes to realize that everything Joe and Nile see in him is absolutely there. He’s a good man in a storm, as they say, he makes Joe happy, Joe clearly makes him happy, and it doesn’t hurt that he’s the best home cook Booker has potentially ever known.

It’s wonderful to know that Joe has somebody who takes care of him, and it’s even better to have somebody to talk to about obscure, pretentious novels, even while Joe and Nile tease them.

*

Joe tells him one night that Nicky loves him, all of him, even when he’s a depressed mess. That he thinks they’re going to grow old together.

It’s a random Wednesday, and they’re watching the game on Booker’s couch while Nicky and Nile are off at a stuffy company party. He knows Joe is telling him this now because it’s maybe only now that he’s realizing himself that it’s true.

Joe’s misty eyed as he says it, and when Booker asks why he’s pointing out the obvious, Joe hits him with the lumpy throw pillow Nicky knitted for him. And then he hugs Joe and tells him congratulations, and he deserves it, and then they discuss Booker’s ten step plan to get Nile to agree to marry him.

*

Joe told him on a particularly gloomy night when they were still in high school, just before they found out whether or not they got into college, that there were only three things he wanted in his future.

The first thing was Booker’s friendship (“Bros for life,” he’d said, blinking his sparkly brown eyes wide and earnest). Booker had nodded, uncertain of his own future, but knowing without a doubt that Joe would be there.

The second thing Joe wanted was a place of his own that had a comfortable bed and a refrigerator full of food that he liked. Booker thought to himself that this was an alarmingly low standard for a dream home, thinking of a pool and a fireman’s pole that would obviously stretch up all four storeys of his own future house. He thought of a dog, and a chocolate fountain, and a field for football. But then again, Joe had grown up in a very small apartment with a very big family, so he guessed his own arguably spoiled upbringing as an only child in a two storey house didn’t allow him to see things quite the same way.

The third thing had made his head turn, because it was the last thing he’d ever expected Joe to say. The image of him and Joe with beards and big muscles and blurry, faceless wives, all sitting around his pool and laughing, melted right out of his head.

Joe’d said to him, voice shaking, “the third thing I want is a man who loves me. Because I’m gay.” He’d been looking up at the night sky as he said it, tear-filled eyes tracing over the constellations Booker taught him how to identify when they were just boys.

Booker took a deep breath, thinking about Joe’s dad, how he knew he wouldn’t be supportive. Of the increasingly frequent teasing Joe got for being a heartbreaker, such a sweetheart, really, the perfect boy, but who never brought any of the girls who followed him around town home with him. Of how Booker knew that he was going to get into college, that he was going to get a scholarship, even, and the reason they were gloomily camped out in Joe’s backyard like they used to when they were kids was because they were both scared that Joe’s lower grades were going to mean Booker had to leave him behind while Joe tried to put himself in a better position at community college, or worked a minimum wage job for awhile, just while he came up with a new plan.

He’d watched a tear roll down Joe’s cheek, and listened to the sob catch in his throat when he reached over and took his hand. He thought about the inevitable fallout when Joe told his family, and how even if Joe didn’t get into college, Booker was going to pack him in his suitcase and let him live secretly with him in his dorm so he could be with somebody who loved him while he figured his life out, even if his family wouldn’t.

“I’ll always be here, man,” he’d said, holding back his own tears while Joe’s shoulders shook and he threw his arm over his eyes. “And we’re gonna get you everything you want. I promise.”

Two decades later, he’s watching Joe and Nicky flirt while they wash their dishes together, giggling at each other like they’ve been together for five weeks, rather than five years. He and Nile are on the sofa cuddling the cats, waiting for the two of them to finish up and come show them the photos they took on their road trip over the summer. He watches Nicky duck his head to hide his grin and blush, watches Joe poke his ribs and ask him what that’s all about, and then listens to Nicky murmur about how Joe’s eyes are beautiful and he’s a lucky guy, is all. He looks away when they kiss, winking at Nile, who is grinning at him, her engagement ring glimmering on her finger, and thinks to himself that yeah, he and Joe have done pretty well for themselves.

(He realizes that he has kept all three parts of his promise.)

**Author's Note:**

> title is from if we make it through december by merle haggard. would recommend the phoebe bridgers cover 
> 
> tumblr is @ dearpatroclus


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